


if there are monsters

by theslap (bigspoonnoya)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Incognito Vampire Connor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Monster Hunter Hank, Trans Character, Unresolved Sexual Tension, crossbows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-05 16:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15867753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigspoonnoya/pseuds/theslap
Summary: It's 1830 in Detroit, and renowned monster hunter Hank Anderson partners with a handsome stranger called Connor to find and kill the notorious vampire Kamski. It turns out they make a pretty good team.





	1. J & H

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this fic is pulled from bram stoker's dracula: "The world seems full of good men, even if there are monsters in it."
> 
> i was gonna make this a one-shot but twitter convinced me to split it up so like... 5 chapters of five-thousand words? sure.
> 
> also, accidentally tagged major character death but it is MINOR character death oops

Detroit is changing.

Detroit has always been growing, for as long as Hank can remember, but in the past few years it’s begun to change in a way Hank doesn’t recognize. That damned canal opened a path between New York and Michigan; new settlers arrive everyday, some of them staying, others moving on to farmlands further west. Many of them speak German and not French, and they’ve never trapped fur, and they don’t intend to start. The population booms in the town in the territory where Hank was born. It’ll soon be a city in a state. The twenty-sixth state in the Union.

Some folks are excited about that. You see posters in the streets advocating for Michigan’s statehood. Hank can’t bring himself to care about what goes on in Washington and whether or not they’ve got a say in it—he can’t imagine it’ll affect their lives here, hundreds of miles away, in the way some of his neighbors do.

With all the changing, there are people in Detroit nowadays who don’t know who he is, who don’t know who his father was. The name Anderson means nothing to them.

In some ways, it makes his job easier. He camouflages better now than he did when he was a younger man.

But there are some who remember; this is why he still gets calls like the one he’s responding to right now. The name of the tavern is the Monroe, in Woodbridge Street, an area Hank could probably get around blindfolded. On the inside, the Monroe looks the same as it did when it was built some fifty years ago, as a place for trappers to drink and eat and sleep after their payday. Hank can remember being dragged here a couple times with his father. It feels smaller than it did then, now that he’s hit six feet, and mustier, run down by a generation of traffic. The paintings on the walls are wildlife scenes, ducks and foxes and raccoons. There’s a large one of the canal, too, which Hank takes a second to glare down, before he finds his employer.

“Lieutenant,” he hears Fowler’s voice say. “You wanna keep staring at pictures, or are we gonna talk?”

His friend and former Captain sits at a table for two. He kicks the chair across from him out and gestures for Hank to sit.

“We’re gonna talk.” Hank plops his hat on the table before he falls into the seat. It’s a wide-brimmed, black leather traveling hat, the same one he’s worn for the past fifteen years. Doesn’t smell great, but it must have some kind of luck baked into it by now, so he can’t give it up. “How are you, Jeffery?”

“Overworked. You seen what the port looks like lately? It’s fuckin’ madness.”

“Guess that’s what happens when you agree to be Marshal.”

Fowler grins. “Guess it is. It’s why I rely on my friends.”

“Yeah, and what are you relying on me for this time?”

The grin slides off Fowler’s face. “I’m not gonna lie to you, Hank. I don’t envy you on this one.”

“Then send someone else.”

“There’s no one else to send.”

Hank sighs. It’s not the first time he’s heard that from Fowler—they always give him the worst shit, mainly because he’s the only one who has ever come back from the worst shit. He’s got a penchant for survival and getting the job done that’s proved invaluable to the Marshals office over the past ten years, on their more specialized missions. “At least buy me a drink before you put this on me.”

Fowler’s a good guy, most of the time, and they go back years, so he obliges. Hank downs half of it right away, figuring it’ll make whatever Fowler’s about to say easier to hear.

“There’s a settlement a little north of here. A half day’s ride, maybe. Local clergyman came to me and said they found a farmer and his family dead in their beds. Their blood was drained and they had bite marks on their necks.”

Hank leans back in his chair. “Huh. And what do you think could’ve done that?”

“It’s a who, actually.”

“I hunt monsters, Jeffery.”

“He’s as much a monster as a man.” Fowler pulls a rolled up parchment from his overcoat and slides it toward Hank. “There’s a map to the settlement on that paper. The name they gave me was Kamski. Don’t know where they got that from, but they seemed sure Kamski was responsible.”

“You sure there’s no possessed mountain lion or Great Bear I could take care of for you, instead?”

“Listen, Hank.” Fowler lowers his voice and leans in. “This isn’t the first one of these we’ve seen. But they’re getting closer to Detroit. People are starting to notice, now that whole families are disappearing or ending up dead. This Kamski thing, or man, or whatever he is, whatever he once was—it’s a problem. We need it taken care of.”

It’s not as though Hank hasn’t killed men before, it’s just… been a while. He took out a werewolf maybe five years back, and watching it transform back into a man as it died brought him right back to the battlefield. Not his favorite experience. “And you’re paying me how much?”

“Five thousand.”

“For _one_ bounty?”

“I don’t think you’re getting how serious this is, Hank.”

Hell, maybe he isn’t. It always seems like whatever Fowler brings him is the most dangerous threat yet. He can’t quite imagine what could make this Kamski vamp that much worse than the hellhounds or animated corpses or bigfoots he’s hunted in the past. “I’m not gonna say no to a paycheck like that, though you’ll be lucky if I ever take a job from you again with that kind of money in my pocket.”

“You’ve got a unique talent,” says Fowler. “Detroit needs you, Lieutenant.”

“Detroit needs a sewage system and a couple more brothels. Cleaner ones, preferably.”

Fowler blows by that comment. “You just follow that map, get to the village, and tell them you’re with the Marshals. Or don’t. I know you’ve got your own methods.”

“When’d the family get killed?”

“A couple of days ago. It can’t be far.”

“You know how fast it moves?”

“It was human, once—”

“And now it isn’t. Now it’s a bloodsucker.” Hank puts his hands up. “Just sayin’, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this line of work, it’s to assume nothing.”

“You’d know better than me,” says Fowler, with a shrug. “But I can only tell you what I can tell you. I’m giving you a place to start.”

“Do I get the first half upfront?”

Fowler pulls an envelope from the same pocket where he’d stored the map. “Just a thousand now. The rest when you bring us the head.”

Hank finishes his beer and starts to get up. “I don’t know what’s with you all and me bringing the heads.”

“It’s a trophy, Hank. You’re a hunter. You ought to know about those.”

Hank doesn’t say what he wants to say, which is that he was never taught to hunt for sport. He and his father trapped furs to earn the money they needed to survive, until the fur trade started dying out. Now he kills monsters to help people and make a buck. It’s not fun for him, it’s a job, sometimes a calling.

“I suppose the next time I see you,” he says, offering Fowler a handshake, “I’ll be handing you a head.”

Fowler takes his hand and shakes firmly. “I look forward to it. Good luck.”

 

 

 

 

Fowler told him a half day’s ride to this village, but he gets there in less time than that, only a couple of hours.

It’s a quiet satellite of Detroit, a farming town. He passes a dozen of these farms on his way into the village, regretting he doesn’t know in which the killings occurred. The village itself is a cluster of only ten or eleven buildings—a pub, an inn, a general store, a blacksmith, a church, and some small houses. He finds he doesn’t mind the size of the place. It’s a nice break from the growing activity of Detroit.

He always starts at the pub on these missions, both so he can have a drink and because people who’ve been drinking are more likely to divulge the kind of information he needs. Barkeeps absorb all the talk their little kingdoms have to offer.

The pub’s an unremarkable establishment. Doesn’t even seem to have a name; the sign over the door simply reads PUBLIC HOUSE. Hank gets looks when he enters, but he gets looks wherever he goes, because he’s six-foot-four and wide as most doorways. His coat goes almost to the floor, he’s got a crossbow slung across his back, his hat obscures his face. He can’t blame folks for staring. He’d stare too, if he were in their place.

He heads straight for the man behind the counter.

“An ale.”

The man nods and grabs a tankard Hank waits for him to start pouring the beer before he starts asking questions.

“You heard the name ‘Kamski’ before around here?”

The barkeep doesn’t stop pouring Hank’s drink, or produce any particular reaction at all. “Are you with that other man?”

“Other man?”

“A young one. Nicely dressed. He was in here this morning asking about Kamski.” The barkeep puts the tankard down in front of Hank, not blinking when some foam sloshes over the top. “Seems odd there’d be two of you in one day.”

Another person asking about Hank’s bounty… that’s a new one. Usually he’s the only one with the guts to go after his bounties—or he’s at least the only one to survive. So Hank’s gotta assume that this young man is just some foolhardy would-be monster hunter. If the kid is lucky, Hank will catch up to him before he gets himself killed.

“You catch a name from the young one?”

“No, sir. I don’t ask for names.”

“Hmph.” Turning out to be massively helpful, this one. Hank tries again. “What about Kamski, then?”

“That’s who they’re sayin’ killed that family a couple days back.”

“Which family? Where’d they live?”

“Their name was Turner. The farm’s on the north side of town. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Hank takes a long drink of his ale, contemplating his next question. “What do you hear about Kamski? Why’d he do it?”

The barkeep meets his eye with a listless gaze and doesn’t speak. It’s… creepy.

Hank sighs and slides a coin across the bar. “Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”

The barkeep takes the coin, examines it, and glances around at the rest of his patrons, all of who are pretending not to be listening to every word that passes between him and Hank.

The barkeep pockets Hank’s money. “They say he isn’t human.”

“What is he?”

“A vampire. A nasty one, too. He came over from the Old World, because they wouldn’t stop hunting him there, and he killed a whole crew of sailors on the trip. Only the captain and the first mate lived.”

 _That’s a ridiculous story_ , Hank thinks. One creature killing a dozen men, in the middle of the ocean, where he’d have nowhere to hide? He takes another drink. “What’s he look like?”

“Don’t know. Just heard stories.” The barkeep starts to move away from him, down the bar, probably toward some tankards in desperate need of cleaning. “Maybe your friend knows. I told him how to find the Turner house earlier.”

Hank pulls a face at the word _friend_. He’s preemptively annoyed at having to deal with a hanger-on. “Sure, thanks.”

He’s got everything this barkeep is going to give him, so Hank finishes his drink quickly and heads outside. He unties his horse and mounts up, heading up the northern road out of town, as instructed. He has perhaps two hours before night falls and his task becomes more dangerous. Hopefully this place is as easy to spot as he’s been told.

 

 

 

 

Hmm. It’s probably the abandoned-looking house with the large cross nailed over the front door and all the windows sitting open. He can see what the barkeep meant, that you can’t miss it.

A white curtain has half-escaped one of the windows and flutters in the breeze. Hank’s stomach churns anxiously.

The horse is nervous just approaching. “I understand,” he tells the mare. He dismounts and ties the reins to a fence, still a distance from the house.

The Turner home sits in a clearing with a forested patch to the north and a corn field to the south. The door rests slightly ajar, so Hank can slip inside, under the giant cross hanging over the entrance. Upon closer examination, he guesses some townsperson hastily placed it there after the murders, hoping to frighten whatever evil lay within.

The interior of the house is dark and smells like death. The bodies are gone, to where Hank couldn’t say, but they’d rotted enough before being removed to leave a terrible odor. He pulls the kerchief around his neck up to cover his nose.

Aside from the smell, he discovers shockingly little evidence of what happened. There’s no blood, aside from a few droplets here and there; Kamski wasted very little. The only signs of a struggle are a knocked over chair and a broken mirror, and either of those things could’ve happened when the bodies were discovered or moved. He notes that the Turners didn’t have any crosses or wards against evil prominently displayed. That may have cost them their lives, and it might be the reason for the cross over the door.

He exits the house only twenty minutes after entering, knowing almost nothing more about what happened. There’s just the one door, so Kamski had to have come in through that, or through a window. Hank circles the perimeter of the house searching for older tracks, but it quickly becomes obvious that he’s not the first person to try this, and the overlay of footprints makes identifying Kamski’s impossible. The freshest of these tracks looks not even a few hours old.

Interesting. These fresh footprints are the only viable path for tracking, so he traces them around the back of the building and to a small shed. There are no tracks leading away. Hank grins to himself and approaches quietly. He likes this moment, when he knows he’s caught one, but his prey remains none the wiser.

Hank throws open the door to the shed, expecting a shout, at the very least a gasp.

In the shed is a man, sitting on a barrel, who doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see him.

“It took you longer to find me than I expected.”

He is as the barkeep described, young and dressed in gentlemen’s clothing. Hank could add a few of his own descriptors to that: he could mention the mop of soft brown curls, the assortment of moles on his pale white skin, the sharp cut of his jaw. He is petite for a man and he doesn’t especially radiate healthiness, but he appears clean almost to the point of glowing despite sitting in this shed for who knows how long, and you don’t see a lot of clean-looking folks out on the frontier.

He gives Hank a listless smile, which Hank doesn’t return.

“That’s likely because I wasn’t very concerned with looking for you,” says Hank, jerking the kerchief down from his face. “Who are you?”

“I am called Connor.”

“Yes, but who _are_ you?”

Connor continues to smile without any particular inflection or emotion behind it.

Hank sighs and turns on his heel. “Stop looking for Kamski if you want to live, kid.”

“I promise you I’m not very concerned with living!”

Hank starts to march across the yard, intending to get back on his horse and head back into town. Maybe if he keeps asking around, he can find out something useful. He could talk to the clergyman Fowler mentioned.

A glance over his shoulder reveals that Connor is following him.

“Excuse me, but I’ve told you my name. It only seems fair that I’m permitted to know yours.”

“My name’s ‘United States Federal Marshal.’”

“Ah—are you Lieutenant Henry Anderson?”

Hank stops short, and Connor nearly collides with his back. Hank turns around to face this stranger, though perhaps they’re not strangers at all. “It’s Hank. How’d you know my name?”

“Your reputation precedes you. I was aware of your employment by the Detroit Marshal.”

Hank squints at Connor, but the man has no tells—he barely even blinks. Hank’s intuition says there’s something Connor isn’t telling him, but he can’t get much further than that.

“Lieutenant,” says Connor. His voice is mild, polite, and pleasant, in a way that seems rehearsed. “I believe we can be of assistance to each other. As you mentioned, I’m also searching for the vampire known as Kamski.”

The corner of Hank’s mouth ticks up. “Thanks, but I work alone.” Again he turns and starts striding back to his horse.

Still, Connor tails him. Hank doesn’t look back at him, but he can tell from the way that voice persists in his ear. “You are making an error, Lieutenant. You will never be able to catch Kamski without me.”

“If you know my reputation, you know that’s not true.”

“I do, and I also know Kamski’s reputation, which you do not. I’ve been pursuing him for years. I have information you cannot ascertain on your own, and part of that information relates to Kamski’s power.”

Hank reaches his horse and begins untying the reins. “All right. So tell me this information, and I’ll go kill it.”

“Have you ever killed a vampire before, Lieutenant?”

Hank pauses before he mounts up. “No. I haven’t.” He puts his foot in the stirrup and swings into the saddle. Now Connor has to look up at him, even more than he did before. Hank is an imposing figure on horseback; he knows this, and how to use it. “But I’m sure they die just like any monster should.”

Connor grabs his reins to keep him from riding off, to Hank’s annoyance. “On the contrary, vampires do not die like any other creature, because they are not alive. Do you know how to kill something that isn’t alive, Lieutenant?”

“Why do I feel like you’re not just going to tell me?”

“It is a little more complicated than that,” says Connor, smiling. “If you allow me to accompany you, I would be more than happy to provide my expertise. After all, we do have the same goal in mind.”

That, unfortunately, makes a lot of sense, particularly if Connor’s not lying about this “expertise” he claims he has. “Hey,” says Hank. “What kind of expertise are we talking about here? You a professor or something? You look like you came outta one of those universities.”

Connor’s head tilts to the side, which makes Hank feel uncomfortable in a way he can’t quite explain. “That is accurate. I am a specialist.”

“In… vampires?”

“Yes.”

“I move fast. I don’t know if you can keep up.”

“If at any point you find I am not able to ‘keep up,’ you are free to go on without me. I am suggesting we help each other, not be responsible for each other.”

It’s tempting to say yes just so Connor will stop talking at him. “And if I say no?”

Connor smiles his creepy-weird smile again. Hank has a feeling he’s going to get tired of the politeness. “I will continue to follow you in your search for Kamski.”

Just as Hank thought: the choice he’s being given isn’t much of a choice at all. If he consents to it, perhaps he’ll find the predicament less irritating. And if Connor is the expert he claims to be, he might at least avoid becoming a hindrance. “You know what?” says Hank, with a humorless laugh. “Sure. Come along and tell me your vampire secrets. Just don’t get in my way.”

He considers adding, _and don’t expect a cent of my bounty_ , but if Connor doesn’t know there’s a bounty Hank won’t be the one to tell him. Hank can have his secrets, too.

“Excellent, Lieutenant,” Connor says, a more genuine smile spreading over his lips. He lets go of Hank’s reins, finally.

“Meet me at the inn in the village. I gotta eat something, and you need to tell me what you know.”

“Yes, of course.”

There’s a moment of awkwardness where Hank can tell Connor is hoping to be invited to ride back with him.

Rich and educated he might be, but Connor won’t get everything he wants from Hank. He should know there are limits, lines that won’t be crossed. That Hank isn’t his friend, and he’s a fool if he thinks otherwise.

Hank wheels his mount around and urges her into the road, leaving Connor without a goodbye.

 

 

 

 

It’s dark by the time Connor arrives at the inn, and Hank is halfway through his meat-and-potatoes dinner. Not as good as the meat-and-potatoes dinner he could’ve gotten in Detroit, but acceptable considering the circumstances.

Connor doesn’t look like a man who just walked several miles down a dirt road. His hair is as light and clean as before, and there is hardly any mud on his boots—a real nice leather pair, hitting him just above the ankle. He wears a faded light blue coat verging on old fashioned, but retains its handsomeness. His clothes are money clothes, and it makes Hank wonder what the hell he’s doing out here, hunting vampires. He hasn’t got an ounce of fat on his body, either—how does he survive the cold?

“Lieutenant. May I join you?”

“I already invited you, didn’t I?”

Connor takes the seat opposite Hank in the small, tavern-like area on the inn’s first floor. They are the only patrons, and the old woman tending the bar has nodded off. “We can wake her up if you’re hungry,” Hank offers. He regrets it immediately—he doesn’t want Connor knowing he can be nice sometimes.

“No, thank you. I’m satiated at the moment.”

“There’s ale.”

“I do not drink alcohol.”

“Jesus. Then what do you drink?”

Connor gives a little shrug.

“More for me, I suppose,” Hank grunts, raising his tankard to his lips.

“Shall I fill you in on the details of the Kamski incidents thus far?”

Hank bites down on a grin. “You shall.”

“I became aware of Kamski several years ago, when he attacked and killed a close friend of mine.”

 _Ah_ , Hank thinks _, that explains it_. Connor’s on a revenge mission, and it’s good news for Hank: no sharing the bounty if all Connor seeks is vengeance.

“I wish I knew more about his life before he became a vampire, but I know essentially everything that’s occurred since.” Connor absently smoothes his waistcoat while he talks. “He’s killed at least two hundred people in his time as vampire, likely more. I believe he died sometime during the fifteenth century.”

“The fifteenth—are you telling me this thing is four hundred years old?”

“He is not a thing, Lieutenant, unless you are also a thing. You wouldn’t be able to distinguish him from any other man.”

Hank struggles not to roll his eyes. “If that’s true, than we ought to just give up, huh? Because we’ll never be able to catch him.”

“I said _you_ wouldn’t be able to distinguish him from any other man.” Connor forces a smile. “I know what he looks like.”

In all his years of doing this, Hank has never hunted a monster that could disguise itself as a human being. The more Connor talks, the more Hank begins to believe he’s not full of shit. Unless—

“How do I know you’re not Kamski?”

Connor’s delicate brow furrows. “Because I am Connor.”

“But you could be lying to me. Hiding in plain sight. Giving me a fake name.”

Connor looks genuinely lost for a second, perhaps even hurt that Hank would accuse him. Hank feels—guilty? “I suppose it is in your best interest not to trust me. I will simply have to earn that trust from you instead.”

Hank takes a big bite of potato and talks around it. “You can imagine, Connor, that I didn’t get where I got in this business by giving my trust to strangers easily. I like to keep my guard up. You’ve seen my crossbow, right? Never leaves my sight.”

“I would not seek your help if I believed you were gullible.”

“Hmph. Good.” Hank swallows the potato. “What else you know about Kamski, then?”

“He rarely lets his victims live long enough to turn them.”

“Turn them,” Hank repeats. “Into vampires, you mean.”

“Yes. In order to be turned, a victim must be drained almost to the point of death and then left to transform. Kamski prefers to drain his victims completely, giving them no chance to turn.”

“I’m gonna ask a few more dumb questions, seeing as I’m not so familiar with vampires and you seem to know a couple things.”

“I’ll gladly answer,” says Connor, too chipper.

“Can a human get bit and survive? And still be a human?”

Connor nods. “Transformation only occurs once there’s too little blood left for the human to produce more, but too much for them to die instantly.”

“So in theory, Kamski doesn’t need to kill anybody. Why does it murder whole families in their beds?”

“He kills,” says Connor, “because he is a bad man, and does not believe human life is sacred. He thinks humans are unimportant and weak and…” Connor takes a breath. “That he can do what he wants with them.”

Hank’s starting to see why Connor doesn’t want him thinking of Kamski as an animal. It absolves Kamski of responsibility, and based on what Connor is saying, Kamski’s extremely responsible for his behavior. He’s not just trying to survive.

“Okay,” Hank sighs. “So we’re dealing with a creature of human intelligence and appearance, with the ability to understand his actions are wrong and choose to commit them anyway. Gotta say, I’m not feeling especially helped by what you’ve told me so far.”

“I only wish for you to know what you’re up against, Lieutenant.”

“Appreciate it.” Thinking about blood and death has subdued Hank’s appetite, and he pushes his dinner away. “So what’s our next step to catch him?”

Connor leans forward slightly. “Did you gain any information from the interior of the Turner residence today?”

“Nothing. You?”

Connor’s lips twitch. Hank doesn’t like noticing it, but they do. “I’m afraid I did not. My best guess is that Kamski will head south toward the next large population center where he can hunt.”

Hank had a bad hunch about that. “So, Detroit.”

“Yes. Detroit is not a large city compared to those in the states proper, but it is the largest settlement in Michigan, and Kamski may be able to go undetected there for a time.”

“How long until he gets hungry again?”

Connor glances upward, considering. “Like a human, a vampire can survive up to two or three weeks without food, depending on the size of its last meal. Kamski’s last meal consisted of two adults and two children—” Hank’s stomach churns. He’s been trying not to think about the children. “—so I would say a month at most.”

“A month.” Hank once spent three months hunting a hodag up north, and that thing didn’t have several thousand other hodag-looking creatures to blend in with. “We’ll see what we can do. I’ll ride back to Detroit in the morning. I assume you’ll do the same.”

Connor purses his lips. “I will hire a horse, most likely. Lieutenant, I have to ask—”

“Do you?”

“I do not have a place to stay in Detroit. I was hoping you could point me in the direction of a reputable establishment.”

Hank gives him a dead-eyed stared. “Yes, I think I can help you out.”

“Very well.” Connor stands and bows slightly, making Hank choke on his ale. “I shall greet you in the morning.”

 

 

 

 

Connor wasn’t lying: he’s waiting outside the inn the next morning, holding the reins of his hired mount.

“Would you like to make conversation on our journey, Lieutenant?”

“I would not, thanks.”

Connor respects his request, thank god. He’s not so bad when he’s quiet—you get all the benefits of looking at him without having him nag you about anything. A couple hours later, they’re posting their horses in front of an house bearing a well-worn sign. It reads, NORTHERN BOARDING HOUSE.

“You say this is a reputable establishment?” Connor asks, trailing Hank up the front steps.

“Nope, but it’s home.” Hank throws open the door. “Ms. North! I got a new boarder for you.”

North sticks her head in from the parlor, takes one look at Connor, and says, “He doesn’t belong here.”

Connor turns pink from toe to tip—or so Hank would assume. He’s pretty well-covered below the neck. She’s got a point, as Connor won’t fit in among her current tenants. Connor clings to his small leather case.

“He needs a place to stay for the month,” Hank tells her. “And he’s got money.”

“I do,” Connor chimes, reaching for the pocket where Hank had already guessed he keeps his money. It’s got that coin-heavy bulge to it that Hank likes so much.

North rolls her eyes, but she’s not going to say no to someone who can actually pay their way. That’s why she lets Hank come and go all hours of the day. “Fine,” she says. “House rules are: breakfast at 7, dinner at 6. No parties, and if you want to fuck, you’ve got to be quiet about it. Nobody wants to know what kind of sounds you make. All right?”

She waits for Connor to agree. The word _fuck_ has turned him thoroughly scarlet, so he takes a moment to do so. “Yes, Ms. North.”

“Great.” She turns to Hank. “He can have the room across from yours.”

“Wait, _directly_ across from mine?”

“Yes.” She glances sideways at Connor. “Figured you two would want to be nearby one another.”

Hank says, “Come on, North,” at the same time Connor chimes, “Yes, that would be ideal.”

Hank tosses Connor a glare. He might know a lot about vampires, but apparently he knows nothing about—anything else.

North shrugs. She pulls out a keyring and begins removing one. “It’s the only clean vacancy anyway. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” says Connor. North tosses him the key to his room. “Hank, will you show me there so I can put away my things?”

“Yeah, I’ll _show you_.”

“Later, boys,” says North, returning to the parlor, where she’s most likely got a round of poker going with some clueless lumberjacks. Hank has learned not to partake in her games—he’s paid her more than his fair share of rent over the years, thanks to her poker face.

Hank leads Connor up one set of narrow, squeaky stairs, and another, to the third floor landing. Here there’s a long hallway with two pairs of doors, each pair directly opposite one another. At the set of doors farther from the stairs, Hank indicates one of the doors, marked with the letter J. “My room.” He points to the door right across from it, marked as H. “Your room.”

Hank pulls out his key and starts to enter his room, but Connor’s voice stops him.

“Shall we meet in the parlor in an hour or so, Lieutenant?” He smiles with an unusual warmth. Hank’s throat feels tight. “We ought to get started.”

“Sure,” Hank grunts, and slams the door behind him.


	2. cold clues

“For the love of God, _fine_ , I’ll go to the tobacco shop with you.”

Connor blinks at Hank over their breakfast—Hank’s breakfast, actually, since Connor ate before Hank got up. An early riser _and_ a night owl, this kid. Over the course of their first week as partners (Hank hates the sound of that word, even in his head), he’s heard Connor coming and going at all hours, and a couple of times it’s even woken him from slumber.

“According to my research,” Connor says, “this is the only shop in Detroit that carries the variety of tobacco I am interested in.”

“So you’ve mentioned three times already. You just gotta have your smokes, huh?” Hank squints. “I’ve never seen you with a pipe. When are you smoking this fancy tobacco you like so much?”

Connor does that thing he does where Hank asks him a question and instead of responding, he smiles.

“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude not to answer a man when he asks you something?”

“If you really want to know, I don’t smoke.”

“What?” says Hank, except Connor is already getting up.

“I’ll meet you outside, Lieutenant. Please hurry up, as we are losing good daylight hours.”

Hank makes a rude gesture at his back as he leaves.

Hank takes his time finishing up his eggs out of spite. He finds Connor half an hour later, seated on the front steps of North’s, his knees together and his hands folded atop them. That same strange way Hank found him sitting in the shed.

They haven’t made much progress in their first week. They revisited the village where the Turners were killed to question the clergyman who reported the murders and got nothing from him except several vials of holy water—Connor’s request, though he makes Hank carry them like his goddamn pack mule. They’d been asking around the ports, trying to make sure Kamski hadn’t already fled. Connor talks Hank through the process of creating a stake capable of killing a creature like Kamski. But overall, it’s felt like the prelude to progress rather than progress itself.

They don’t talk on their walk to the tobacco shop. Hank demanded on their first day that they keep the idle chit-chat to a minimum, and Connor hasn’t spoken a conversational word to him since. He’s starting to regret Connor’s faithfulness to his request. Yes, Connor is strange, and his voice is annoying, but not talking to him at all unless it’s about Kamski—that’s also strange and annoying.

“It’s this one,” Connor says, surging ahead of him to enter the door of a tiny shop. The sign outside advertises fine imported tobaccos, liquors, and opiums. The promise of liquor perks Hank’s interest.

Connor heads straight for the counter and the shopkeeper behind it. Hank hangs back, shoving his hands into his pockets. He probably looks a bit like Connor’s bodyguard, but that might not be a bad thing. The kid is a stick, after all, and not even an especially sturdy stick.

“Hello. I’m told you carry a variety of cherry-chocolate cavendish.” Hank can hear Connor giving the shopkeeper one of his stupid smiles. “Might I ask you a few questions about it?”

The shopkeeper is an older woman who looks like she’s probably tried every variety of tobacco, liquor, and opium her stock has to offer, and lived to tell it. “What kind of questions?” she asks, her voice a croak.

“Do you consider it a popular variety? Would you say you have many customers asking after it?”

“It’s the most expensive thing we carry, so I wouldn’t say that, no.”

“Right, naturally.”

Hank moves closer to the counter, trying to get a look at the selection of bourbon.

“I have a school friend, you see,” Connor says, “who prefers cherry-chocolate cavendish to the point where he’ll go out of his way for it. And I haven’t seen him in some time, so I like to ask after him in shops that carry it. To see how he’s fairing.”

The woman doesn’t seem impressed by Connor’s story, but at least Hank understands why they’re here, now. “You think I remember everybody that’s been in here?”

“No, but perhaps you remember if any men around my age have purchased your rarest variety in the past week or two?”

“How old are you?” the woman asks, deadpan. “About nineteen?”

Hank laughs. Connor gives him a sideways glance that shuts him up immediately. “My friend has a pale complexion and dark eyes. He typically wears his hair pulled back. Does this sound familiar?”

“Nobody’s bought the cherry-chocolate cavendish in the last month, mister.”

Connor steps back from the counter and nods. “I see. Would you mind if I asked you to keep an eye out for him?”

The woman looks at Connor, and then at Hank, and back to Connor. “If he comes in, seems like I’ll notice him now, doesn’t it?”

Connor does one of his small bows for her, and she looks about as flabberghasted as Hank the first time Connor did that to him. “I will be sure to return in the coming weeks, then.”

“How nice,” says the woman, though Hank gets the feeling she doesn’t mean it.

“Excuse me,” says Hank. “Could I get a handle of that middle-shelf bourbon?”

Hank pays for his liquor, slips the bottle into his pocket, and they exit the shop. Despite Connor’s concern over Hank’s leisurely breakfast, they have the entire day left to do their work.

Hank sighs. “You got any other leads you want to not tell me about?”

“Not that would be accessible to us at this hour. In the evening I have a thought as to where we’ll go.”

Hank has bitten his tongue for days now. And maybe they shouldn’t argue in the street like this, but—Hank doesn’t care who hears them. “You know, when I agreed to let you come along, I didn’t think I was signing on as your errand boy or bodyguard, or whatever you think I am.”

Connor frowns at him. “Lieutenant. You’re a critical part of this investigation.”

“Then why do we only follow your leads?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that you had any leads to offer.”

That shuts Hank down right away. He takes off his hat, smooths the hair underneath, then shoves it back on his head. “Damned vampires.”

“Do you truly know as little about vampires as you claim, Lieutenant?”

“As I claim? Why would I lie about that? I know nothing about them. We don’t get ‘em out here—ever.”

“I know for a fact that you are incorrect on that score.”

Christ, he forgot, Connor is a vampire _expert_. “How can you be so sure of that?” Hank asks. “You spent much time out in the Michigan territory? You’ve never even been to Detroit before now.”

Connor looks at him for a long moment, his lips puckering, almost… disappointed. Strange. “What would you like to do for the remainder of the morning? We could return to Ms. North’s, or ask about Kamski in other nearby shops.”

“You don’t got a sketch of this guy or anything, right? I don’t think your description does much to stoke memories.” Connor looks at him with raised eyebrows and a bit of a pout, which—damn it. “We can give it a shot,” Hank grunts. “Seems stupid to head back now.”

They attempt to question a few other shopkeepers, but the general response is uniform: there have been a dozen pale thirtysomethings with dark eyes in and out of Detroit this week. It’s a port town, after all, and one overwhelmingly populated by men. They’re looking for a needle in a stack of needles.

At least the morning passes without more awkward silences between Hank and Connor. Hank doesn’t know why it’s quite as awkward as it is. He’s not an awkward guy, he gets along with most people well enough, even the annoying ones. But with Connor, there’s a block. While Connor is strange, Hank’s not exactly normal himself, and you’d think it shouldn’t throw him like it does. He sees that mop of curls coming and he gets—worked up. Or something like that. It’s odd.

By midday, they’ve exhausted their lot of shopkeepers to bother, thanks to Detroit’s limited supply.

“All right,” says Hank, as they leave the last of a series of dead-end interrogations. “What’s your big plan for the rest of the day?”

Connor pulls a gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and checks the time. “Yes… it’s time, now. Come with me.”

 

 

###

 

 

 

Hank doesn’t think too hard about where Connor leads him, because usually when Connor wants to go somewhere, he plans on asking a shopkeeper about a rare variety of tobacco, or another mundane, meticulous investigative task. Therefore, Hank doesn’t process where Connor has taken him until they step inside.

“Connor.”

“Yes, Hank?”

“Why’d you bring me to a whorehouse?”

It’s not especially well lit in the foyer of the brothel, so Hank can’t read the expression on Connor’s face. Not that he’d be able to read it in a bright room, either, because Connor is a blank slate, but at least he could try to figure out what’s going on in that pretty little head.

“I think we’re going to find something of interest here,” says Connor.

“Interesting to Kamski or interesting to _you_?”

Connor puts a finger to his lips and gestures to a woman approaching them—the madam, judging by her age.

Connor bows to her. “Hello. We’ve come to see one of your girls.”

The madam looks from Connor to Hank, and back to Connor. “It’ll be more for both of you, with just one. Same rate as if you each got a girl for yourself.”

“Christ,” says Hank under his breath, turning away.

“That’s quite all right,” says Connor, too cheerful. “We insist on sharing.”

Hank’s stomach churns horribly, and his face burns. He resists the urge to punch Connor in the arm, or hell, in the _nose_. The way the madam is looking at them right now is humiliating.

She smiles. “I see.” Hank feels his hands ball into fists. “You want to see who’s free?”

“Actually, I’m interested in a specific girl. Is Chloe available?”

“Ah, yes. She is, and a lovely choice at that. Follow me.”

The madam pulls back a curtain to reveal a door, and guides them through it. Connor goes first with Hank trudging behind, gritting his teeth hard enough they hurt. He doesn’t know exactly why he’s this agitated, but Christ, he wants to grab Connor by the shoulders and—shake him _._

He settles for grabbing his elbow while they trail the madam down a long hallway.

Hank whispers furiously, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Connor doesn’t lower his voice. “Chloe is just the person we’ve been looking for, Hank.”

God. Fuck. Connor is obviously up to something, and maybe it’s for the good of finding Kamski, sure. But now he’s brought Hank’s reputation into it—Hank doesn’t know this madam personally, but no doubt she knows someone Hank knows, and word travels in a small city like Detroit. If this woman isn’t discreet, the whole population might soon believe that Hank Anderson likes to share women with—men like Connor. That thought irritates him to no end, though—though he can’t say why, exactly. He’s not proud of it but, this isn’t his first visit to a place like this, and he never minded about word getting out before.

They pass several closed doors with muffled, obvious noises coming from inside. Eventually they come to one which the madam opens with a key.

Before she lets them step inside, she holds out her palm. “Payment up front.”

Connor smiles politely and obliges. At least he isn’t asking Hank to foot the bill for his idiotic stunt.

“You gentlemen make yourself comfortable,” she says. “I’ll be back in a moment with Chloe. You’ve got her for two hours.”

Hank and Connor enter the small, plain bedroom, which smells much like the rest of the house, of smoke and perfume and sweat. This room looks like it’s gotten a fair amount of use—the floor is muddy, the linens look as though they haven’t been cleaned in weeks, there’s a ripped petticoat hanging off the only chair. Connor has brought Hank to a brothel, and it isn’t even a nice brothel.

Now that they’re alone, Hank doesn’t have to lower his voice: “What the fuck, Connor?”

The curtains are drawn on the only window in the room. Connor busies himself opening them, flooding the dim space with daylight. “Lieutenant, you seem vexed. Are you uncomfortable with houses of prostitution?”

“I’m uncomfortable being in one with you!”

Connor turns to him with a frown. “Why?”

This question makes no sense to Hank. How can Connor ask that, _why_? Hank can only glare in reply.

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” Connor sighs, eyeing the petticoat on the chair with encroaching disgust. “But Chloe is our best lead yet. I’ve been visiting brothels all week eliminating other prospective women. I had to say what I said in order to throw off the madam’s suspicions. They don't typically like their girls to talk too much.”

Hank can’t believe he has to ignore the statement that Connor has been visiting brothels all week. No wonder he’s heard so many late-night comings and goings. “Prospective women,” Hank says through his teeth. “Prospective for what?”

“For Kamski. Like many men, he—” Connor gives Hank an odd look, then turns to look out the window. “He has a type he likes.”

“How come you can tell a madam you want to _share_ but you turn red when North tells you to be quiet during sex?”

Connor doesn’t turn to face him. “That’s a personal question, Lieutenant. Have you changed your mind about personal conversations between the two of us?”

“Maybe I have. Maybe it’s driving me crazy.”

Connor looks at Hank, finally, but Hank wishes he hadn’t. His voice is devastatingly mild. “I certainly wouldn’t want to continue driving you crazy.”

The door creaks open, bringing their argument to a end, or perhaps an intermission.

The woman who enters is thin and blonde and pale, blue-eyed, wearing only a nightdress. She’s beautiful. Hank kind of gets what Kamski’s on about.

Connor takes the initiative on this one, yet again, because he’s the only one who has any idea what’s going on. “Chloe. I’m Connor, and this is Lieutenant Anderson, with the US Marshals.”

Chloe doesn’t react to the news that Hank is law enforcement. A good thing, probably. “Hello.”

“We’d like to spend the time we’ve purchased with you talking, if that’s all right,” Connor continues. “I know your madam likely keeps most of your money, but we will pay you independently. You can name your price.”

Chloe smiles softly. A pretty smile, but it makes Hank nervous, too. “In order to do that, I should know what you want to talk about.”

“I’m interested in your clientele over the past week or so. One patron in particular, a man about my age with very pale skin, and dark, sunken eyes.” Connor hesitates, and adds, “He would have been cold to the touch. His skin, that is.”

Chloe blinks at Connor, then glances at Hank. “Three hundred dollars.”

“ _Three hundred_?” Hank splutters.

“Done,” says Connor, with a bow. He reaches for his money bag. Hank sits there with his hands in the air—he’s never met anyone who throws money around like Connor does. He’s never met anyone who had much money to throw around.

With the money clutched in her hands, Chloe nods. “What do you want to know about him?”

“Anything you could tell me. What he said to you, if there was anything strange you noticed, other than his skin…”

Chloe smiles that same, rehearsed smile. “Everything about him was strange.”

“Then start from the beginning, perhaps.”

“He arrived, and we undressed, but he didn’t become aroused,” says Chloe, matter-of-fact. Hank puts his head in his hands. He hates this, _hates_ it. And somehow Connor seems totally unphased? “He was unsurprised and wanted to lie there and talk to me instead, which he did.”

“What did he talk about?”

“About how much he loathes Detroit. He complained about its size, its people, the weather.”

“Hiring a prostitute to whine about your holiday excursion,” Hank mutters. “What a charmer.”

“Did he say why he was visiting Detroit?” Connor asks.

“I asked and he only said business, and that he wanted to leave as soon as he could.”

“Did he say where he might go next?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t ask follow-up questions.”

“That’s quite all right. Did you get an idea of where he might be staying in Detroit?”

There’s a pounding on one of the walls, and someone on the other side lets out a scream-moan. Hank glares out the window, arms folded over his chest.

“He said he was renting a flat, and that he hated it.” Chloe blinks rapidly. “That was the central theme of his conversation.”

Connor looks pointedly at Hank, as if to say, _See, we’ve learned something!_ Hank grunts.

“Thank you, Chloe,” Connor says. “You’ve been very helpful. You’re welcome to take the rest of the time we’ve purchased and use it for yourself.” Chloe tilts her head thoughtfully.

Hank leads the way as they leave; he can’t wait to get out of this place. He bursts through the foyer into the daylight of the street, inhaling deeply.

“Christ, shit,” he says, lifting his hat to push back his hair. “What a nightmare.”

“Lieutenant, all we did was have a conversation with a nice young woman.”

Hank shoots Connor a glare. “You never did answer my question, about why you’re so flustered over some things and not others.”

“Because.” Some rare frustration seeps into Connor’s tone. “I know what needs to be done to accomplish our goal and save innocent lives. I can separate those imperatives from my personal feelings about certain topics, like—sex.” His difficulty saying that word seems genuine, bizarrely enough. “It would be beneficial if you could attempt to do the same.”

Hank doesn’t want to admit that Connor makes a fair point, so he says nothing at all. “I’ll give you that Chloe was helpful. You did good with that one, kid.”

Connor stares at him. The corners of his mouth lift, just barely. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“It sounds to me like the clock is ticking on Kamski in Detroit, and we have no clue where he’ll go next.”

“He will need to feed before a long journey—his frustration with frontier life makes me think he may be heading back to civilization.” Hank narrows his eyes at Connor, who says, sheepish, “Not that Detroit is not civilization.”

“No, it’s all right. We’re a bunch of animals out here, it’s true.”

Connor’s tiny smile widens, and Hank finds himself remarkably unbothered by that. “Shall we return to Ms. North’s for a meal and discuss our next move?”

Hank finds himself distracted by a ray of sunlight hitting Connor’s hair and making him glow golden, just for a second. He has to swallow a tinge of—was that fear he’d felt?

That can’t be right. Imagine, being frightened of the way the sun hits Connor’s hair.

The same sunbeam that captivates Hank makes Connor wince. “Let’s hurry, Lieutenant. I’d like to walk in the shade, if we can.”

 

 

###

 

 

The next few days of investigation involve asking around about flats for rent or recently rented. It’s a deadend so far, but there aren’t that many flats for rent in Detroit. They have to find it eventually.

“I’d like to check in at the tobacco shop,” Connor tells him on the fourth morning of apartment hunting. “If that’s all right with you.”

Hank shrugs and tags along. He’s almost finished the bourbon he got there last time, so he’s interested for that reason, at least.

The shopkeeper is the same older lady from before, and she pales when they enter her store.

“Hello,” says Connor. “Do you remember—”

“‘Course I do. No one else comes in here asking the kind of things you do.”

Connor breezes past her hostility. “Has the man I asked about come in?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Ah.” Connor turns to Hank. “Would you like to purchase your alcohol before we go?”

Hank doesn’t want to know how or why Connor is aware he’s running low on bourbon. “Sure.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

Hank approaches the counter, and the shopkeeper, whose face is still pale. “Same thing I got last time, please.” He gets a feeling, a hunch, and slips her an extra coin when he slides the money over.

The shopkeeper stares down at what he’s offered, her mouth a tight line. She sighs and scoops up the coins. “This is for you, not him.” Hank grins. She pulls his bourbon from the shelf, grabs a scrap of paper, and scribbles something on it in pencil. “He didn’t come in here, but a messenger did, asking for cherry-chocolate cavendish delivered to this address.”

“You,” Hank tells her, shoving the bottle under his arm, “are a delight. Have an excellent day, ma’am.”

He meets Connor outside, still grinning. “Connor. I got a lead.”

“Oh! Congratulations, Lieutenant.” Connor seems genuinely happy for him, and Hank frowns. Apparently they aren’t doing the one-upping thing after all. “Can we follow your lead now?”

“We can, and we should. We don’t have much time.”

 

 

###

 

 

 

 

They find the flat on a side street, on the second story of a building. It has its own independent set of rickety wooden stairs leading up to the door and continuing to the roof. Hank raises a hand to keep Connor from going first—Connor is unarmed, after all, as far as Hank knows. Hank pulls his crossbow off his back and loads it as he starts up the stairs, one step at a time.

The windows are dark, and when Hank tries the door, he finds it unlocked.

He looks back at Connor with a raised eyebrow. Connor lifts his shoulders and mouths, _Be careful_.

Hank sighs. He gives the door a push and waits while it swings open.

He doesn’t know what he was hoping to see on the other side of the door, but it wasn’t an empty flat.

This flat is seriously empty, too. It’s a single room, and the only furniture is a chair with a broken leg. The walls are bare and grimy, apart from a single sheet of paper pinned to the one opposite the door.

“Fuck,” says Hank. “He’s not here. We’re too late.”

Connor hops up the steps and squeezes by Hank into the flat. “He’s gone? Already?”

“He’s not here. It doesn’t look like anyone was ever here.” Hank swallows some annoyance at the shopkeeper. She couldn’t have known she was giving them a bad lead, but he wanted this to pan out, for the sake of his ego.

“I disagree, Lieutenant,” Connor says, examining the paper pinned to the wall. “Kamski was here.”

Hank steps into the flat. “And how do you know that?”

“He left this for me.” Connor carefully removes the paper. “He’s taunting me.”

“What is it?”

Connor turns around and hands the paper to Hank. It appears to be some kind of public notice. “An announcement of the annual meeting of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“My brother will be attending.”

Hank takes a moment to process the news that Connor has a brother, and possibly parents, and that he did not materialize out of the woods one day to “assist” in Hank’s bounty.

The ceiling creaks directly above their heads, followed by a thump.

Connor’s eyes widen.

Hank grins. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “We’re not too late after all.”

“I’ll take the roof,” Connor whispers. “You meet him when he tries to get down?”

“You got it, kid.”

Connor takes off for the stairs to the roof. Hank heads back down to the street, shoving the paper into his coat pocket. He keeps his crossbow cocked and ready as he turns into the alleyway alongside the apartment building, looking for another set of stairs Kamski might use to escape.

He’s got that flutter in his chest he gets during the hunt; strange to feel it here, in the city, chasing something that looks like a man but isn’t.

Hank starts at a shout from overhead. Connor.

Movement flashes in the corner of Hank’s eye—a figure, falling from above.

Hank wheels around and watches the figure land in the alleyway, upright on his feet. Though he hits the ground with enough impact to break both his legs, he stands up straight.

Kamski is as Hank has heard Connor describe him a dozen times: thirties, gaunt, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. He wears a deep scarlet overcoat, but the rest of his attire is unremarkable.

He locks eyes with Hank and frowns.“Hm. Who are you?”

Hank answers by pulling the crossbow trigger—the bolt hurls forward and buries itself in Kamski’s abdomen.

Kamski looks down at the arrow sticking out of his stomach and says, with the cadence of a joke, “Ouch.” He pulls it out of himself without flinching.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Hank grunts, loading another bolt. It doesn’t even look like the first one drew blood, though it buried itself at least three inches deep in Kamski’s torso.

“I will have to get you back for that, you know,” Kamski sighs, reaching into his coat.

Hank starts backing away, trying to put some distance between him and Kamski, but Kamski follows him. Hank manages to get the next bolt loaded and cocks the crossbow.

Kamski smiles. “Humans love to try the same thing over and over, even knowing it won’t work, don’t they?” He lifts a pistol from his hip. Hank’s never seen a gun so fine in person—the barrel covered in lacey designs, the beautiful red wood grip. “One of the many flaws of your kind.”

He gets off a second bolt at Kamski, striking just beneath his left ribs. The force of the shot slows Kamski down, but otherwise doesn’t appear to affect him. Shit.

Kamski cocks his pistol and fires, at a range of about five feet, into the center of Hank’s chest.

Now, Hank has been shot before, but he’s never been shot from five feet away, and never in the chest. He didn’t know a person could feel pain like that and remain conscious, and remain alive. And indeed, as he falls to his knees and keels over in pain, he thinks: _oh, hell. One of ‘em finally got me._

“I hope you weren’t too fond of him, Connor,” says Kamski’s voice from somewhere far away. Hank clutches his chest, pressing his blood-soaked shirt against the wound, trying to stop the flow. He hears scuffling, footsteps. He manages to look up for a second.

In that second he watches Connor jump from the roof of the building, just as Kamski did, and land on his feet uninjured, just as Kamski did.

Kamski is sprinting toward the street, getting away. Connor catches his balance and finds himself with Kamski escaping to his right, and Hank doubled over to his left. Even through the haze of pain, Hank can see the choice Connor must make playing out: letting their man get away or potentially saving Hank’s life.

“Go, Connor,” he manages to shout. “Go after him!”

There’s a split second where Connor doesn’t move, eyes train on the sight of Hank brought to his knees. Behind him, Kamski rounds a corner into the street—and Connor surges in Hank’s direction.

“For fuck’s sake, Connor!”

“What happened? What did he do to you?” Connor gets to his knees and shoves himself under Hank’s arm, supporting his weight. Oddly enough he doesn’t have much trouble with it.

“He fuckin’ shot me, if you didn’t hear.”

“Oh, he shot you,” says Connor, sounding—relieved.

Hank’s head has started to feel unbearably light. “Wh… how’s that a good thing?”

Connor helps Hank to his feet. Hank is too dizzy to notice how much Connor touches him, to notice his blood smearing Connor’s hands. To notice how Connor seems to be holding his breath, because there’s no rise and fall to his chest when you get close. “You’re going to faint soon, Lieutenant. From blood loss,” says Connor’s voice, distant and hollow in Hank’s ears. “But rest assured, you’re safe with me.”

And that’s the last thing Hank remembers before he wakes up in his bed.

 

 

###

 

 

Connor tells North he’s going to clean up, slams the door to his room shut behind him, and collapses against the door.

Getting Hank back to the boarding house, watching his blood drip into the dirt while bystanders stared—that was a hell someone concocted for Connor personally.

Connor hasn’t eaten in weeks. Hank’s blood has dried slightly, but it is still fresh enough to lick from his palms. He finds himself consuming every little bit of it, even what’s trapped beneath his fingernails. He removes his tie and shirt and sucks on the stains. It’s not enough, and he feels pathetic afterward. He won’t be able to last much longer out here without Niles to help him feed.

He sighs and sets about changing his clothes. After a quiet, thought-gathering moment, he crosses the hall to Hank’s room.

Hank sits up in bed. North is there, changing his bandages. “I don’t understand it,” she’s telling him, as Connor enters.

“It sounds like you’re not happy I’m still alive.”

“No, I’m grateful—only, I’ve seen wounds like that before.” She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t be alive, and yet you are. And it’s been, what, an hour? And it’s already starting to look better.”

“I’ve always bounced back quickly.” Hank smooths his hand over his fresh linen bandages. North cleaned the blood from his chest, and Connor has the fleeting thought that he’ll want to find whatever rags she used before they get washed. Connor has yet to see Hank in any state of undress. He tries not to stare.

“You can’t bounce back from a gunshot to the heart,” North sighs.

Hank’s eyes settle on Connor, who has been hovering by the door. “North, can you give me and Connor a minute?”

“Take as many as you want. I’d rather not be around your strange energy any longer.” She smiles at Connor on her way out. “Or yours.”

And then they’re alone, and Hank stares at Connor. The expression on his face issevere, and Connor has to summon an additional inner strength to keep his knees from buckling.

“Would you like me to hand you a fresh shirt, Lieutenant?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d like you to come sit over here and have an honest conversation with me.” Hank gives him a pained smile. “For once.”

Connor nods and moves a chair to Hank’s beside. He sits, feeling uncomfortable, more likely than not looking uncomfortable as well.

When he considers what it is Hank wants to discuss, he comes up with several viable possibilities, because he’s kept a lot from Hank and it’s difficult to know which lie or half-truth or misdirection will be the first to cave in.

“Speaking of people who ought to be dead,” says Hank slowly. “I watched you jump off a two-story building today and walk away. Two minutes before, I watched Kamski do the same thing.”

Connor swallows hard. He can feel himself blinking too much. He doesn’t know what else to do.

“You carried me home, even though you’re half my size.” Hank scratches his beard. “I faded in and out of consciousness a few times, and I remember thinking how cold you felt.”

Hank reaches toward him. Connor considers moving away from his hand, saving himself from whatever is about to happen, but he finds he can’t move when he tries. Hank hooks his finger under Connor’s chin and runs his thumb over Connor’s lip. When Hank retracts his hand, there’s a spot of red on the pad of his thumb. Connor has to resist the urge to lick it off—he is not an animal, he reminds himself.

“You missed a spot,” says Hank flatly. “Is this mine?”

Connor manages the smallest of nods.

“So, Connor.” Hank’s voice gets gruff and low. He lets his legs hang off the side of the bed, a corner of the quilt covering his lap. Connor has begun to suspect that the Lieutenant is entirely naked at this moment. It ought to be the least of Connor’s concerns. “I want you to give me one reason why I shouldn’t go grab that stake you made me carve for Kamski and stick it through your fucking chest.”

Connor shuts his eyes. “I want Kamski dead just as much as you do, Lieutenant. Maybe even more.”

“Why would you want to kill one of your own?”

“Because he’s the one who did this to me.” Connor opens his eyes. He watches the furrow in Hank’s brow smooth over. “He turned me. I don’t care that he’s a vampire, I care that he hurts people.”

“And what about you?” Hank snorts. “Don’t you drink blood too? You’re telling me you’ve never hurt or killed anybody doing what you do?”

“Never,” says Connor, emotion leaking into his voice at the accusation. “I wouldn’t. I have always found ways to survive peacefully.”

“Always,” Hank repeats. His eyes flicker over Connor, softening. “How long’s always? If Kamski’s been around since—how long have you been like this?”

Connor frowns at the floorboards. “Including my years as a human, I’m three hundred and twenty-six.” Hank’s mouth falls open. “I cannot die, Lieutenant. Not the same death as a human man. And I think it is in our best interest that I tell you this now—” Connor lifts his eyes to meet Hank’s. “Neither can you.”


	3. East

“Stop fucking with me, Connor.”

“I’m not, Lieutenant. I promise you.”

Hank stares and Connor struggles not to wilt under his gaze. Hank’s face contorts angrily, and he’s so large and so naked that Connor finds himself feeling an anxiety he doesn’t recognize. He ought to know what it is, perhaps, but it’s been a long time since he experienced this particular emotion.

Hank grips the edge of the mattress and leans toward him. “What’d you do to me?”

Ah, yes. Connor does know this feeling: he’s afraid.

Afraid of Hank. Afraid of what will happen if he fails to explain himself to Hank.

“I didn’t do anything to you,” Connor tells him in earnest. “You’ve always been this way, Lieutenant. You said it yourself, you’ve always bounced back quickly.”

“And you’re making the leap to me not being able to die? ‘Cause I can take a hit?”

Connor shakes his head. “That’s not what I said. You can’t die an ordinary death, but you can die. We can both die.”

“How the hell are you so sure?”

“Because you’re Henry Anderson,” says Connor, growing desperate. “Do you truly not understand what that means? Did no one ever tell you?”

Hank’s expression shifts. Now there’s confusion under his anger. He doesn’t know, he may never have known. Connor considers he might be the one to have to explain everything to Hank for the first time in Hank’s life, and the weight of that responsibility settles his nerves, at least. He remembers why he came here and what he needs to do. Hank’s ignorance only means one thing for certain—that Hank needs him.

“I’m thinking maybe you should tell me right now,” says Hank. “Tell me what you think it means, that I’m Henry Anderson. Tell me what’s special about that.”

In order to explain everything, Connor has to figure out where everything begins. “Your father passed his powers to you, his only child.”

Hank actually—laughs, catching Connor off-guard. “His powers? His _powers_?”

“Yes. Your father was a Hunter.”

“Yeah, he was a hunter, he trapped furs—”

“No, Hank. He was a Hunter.”

Hank falls silent, hearing the distinction.

“Your father was over a century old when he died,” Connor continues. “I can’t be precise beyond that… we lost track of him after he fled west. We only became aware of you in the last two decades.”

“You were keeping tabs on him?”

“Only a Hunter can kill a vampire. And I would like Kamski to die.” Connor smiles weakly. “I seek out your kind, Lieutenant. You are the only living Hunter in the New World, as far as my brother and I can surmise through centuries of searching. You are the only one who can stop him.”

Hank is quiet for a while, his brow sitting furrowed, his eyes resting unfocused somewhere over Connor’s shoulder. “My kind,” he finally says, repeating Connor’s phrase. “Are you saying I’m not human?”

“Hunters are human! They merely come from cursed lineage and must live out eternity destroying vampires. But they are human.” Connor sounds perhaps too cheerful about this fact, because Hank tosses him a dirty look.

“Let’s say,” Hank grunts, “you’re not shitting me. Let’s say I believe you.”

“I hope you will! It is imperative to my—”

“Yeah, yeah, your mission. I know. Let’s say I believe you.” He gestures to himself. “Do I look like I’m immortal to you? Like I don’t age or get hurt?”

Hank is likely referring to his grey hair and wrinkles and the impressive collection of scars spread across his upper body. “I’m not an expert on the anatomical irregularities of people like you,” Connor says. “But if I had to make an educated guess, I would say your body ages when it receives a wound that should be fatal. My evidence for that is that you have a few wrinkles you didn’t have this morning.”

Hank touches his face, frowning deeply. “ _Now_ you’re not an expert?”

“I am an expert on vampirism because...” Connor looks down. “But you are the first Hunter I’ve met. What I know is based only on secondhand accounts.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hank shifts in the bed and groans under his breath. The wound might not have killed him, but it must hurt.

Connor scoots forward. “I understand that this must be challenging news for you, in some ways.”

“In _some_ ways, sure.”

“Frankly, I assumed your father would’ve explained the basics of your ancestry to you. But you had no idea?”

“No idea,” Hank grunts.

“Not even before he died?”

Hank flinches, and Connor wonders if perhaps he should have phrased that more gently. “You know, Connor, he didn’t say anything to me, no. _Frankly_ , I don’t even know if he’s dead, ‘cause he just walked off into the woods one day and didn’t come back. I figured he must’ve died, but now you’re telling me that’s unlikely. So it doesn’t seem like he gave two shits about what happened to me once he was gone.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say; he has been a vampire for centuries, and he rarely thinks of his human parents anymore. He and Niles have been orphans for the great majority of their lives. The pain is fresh in Hank’s voice when he speaks about his father. Connor struggles to relate.

Hank’s father is dead, and Connor knows this for a fact, but he can hear Hank hurting and decides to hold this knowledge close to his chest for now. There’s a chance this will backfire on him sometime in the future, yes. Still, he thinks he’s hit the limit of what Hank can handle for one day.

Hank confirms his suspicions a moment later. “Connor.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you leave me alone for a little while I decide whether or not I’m going to believe you?”

Connor nods and stands, careful to leave a gap between himself and Hank while he slips away from the bed. “When should I—”

Hank puts up his hand. “Nope. I’ll find you when I’m ready to talk.”

“I see.” Connor bows. “Then I’ll leave you be.”

“Good idea.”

Connor exits into the hall and closes the door gently behind him.

He’s reached a point in the search for Kamski that he doesn’t know how to move forward without Hank. He stands in the hall for a minute, trying to rustle up some clue he might investigate on his own, and comes up empty. He came to Michigan for Hank as much as he did for Kamski—now Kamski is getting ready to move on, and Connor can’t follow without Hank.

The fate of their mission now rests on Hank trusting what Connor told him, a trust that Connor would like to believe he’s earned. Connor sighs and traces the J carved in the door to Hank’s room, then crosses the hall to begin composing a letter home.

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

Hank doesn’t come down for dinner. North finds Connor in the parlor, reading, and asks, “Do you want to take him something?”

Connor smiles tightly. “I think it would be best if you delivered the Lieutenant his meal, Ms. North.”

She sighs. “You two get in a fight?”

“Something like that.”

“You think you’ll patch things up?”

Connor traces the spine of his book. “I hope so.”

“Me too. This is the friendliest I’ve seen Hank in…” She laughs. “This is the friendliest I’ve seen him.”

“Friendly?” Connor echoes. “Do you think so?” He has not felt much friendliness from Hank.

She shrugs. “Well, he’s lettin’ you stick with him. I’ve never seen him with a partner before, or even a friend. So I call that friendliness.”

“Ah.”

“I’ll bring the man his dinner,” she says, and leaves Connor to his reading.

Connor stays in the parlor for a long while, even after North has come and gone from Hank’s room. Entering the hallway that joins their rooms strikes him as a dangerous proposition. But he has to eventually, to give the semblance of regular human sleeping patterns. He puts it off as long as he can, until it’s almost midnight.

He creeps up the stairs and down the hall, and attempts silence in opening the door to his room, listening for any movement from Hank’s. Even his heightened sense of hearing can catch nothing from Hank’s room except a heartbeat and gentle breathing. Possibly gentle enough for sleep. Connor slips into his own room.

He removes his jacket and the kerchief around his neck and hangs them neatly in the armoire. Contrary to Hank’s implications, North’s establishment has proven reputable indeed. It’s clean enough and she doesn’t ask questions and seems accepting of his eccentricities. He will miss her company when they leave Detroit, though he misses his brother and the house in Philadelphia more.

He has started on the buttons of his vest when there’s a knock at the door. He makes sure he’s done up enough not to give anything away.

From the heavy creak of the footfalls outside, Connor surmises Hank is on the other side before he opens the door. So he is not surprised.

Hank has gotten dressed, though only in his shirt and trousers, and the former is open enough the bandage on his chest is visible, along with some greyed chest hair. He looks tired.

Connor steps aside to let him in. It goes without saying that they should have this conversation behind closed doors.

Connor doesn’t invite Hank to have a seat, but Hank sits regardless—on Connor’s bed. Connor attempts a semblance of calm. He must remember that these nineteenth century people have been raised with different, newer manners. He can adapt, of course, but there are always… moments of learning. He will have to hope Hank provides a decent sample for the rest of his generation—though Connor supposes that Hank is the only one of that generation who truly matters in Connor’s life. Adapting to Hank should be enough.

“Connor,” says Hank. He clears his throat. “Thought a bit about what you told me.”

Connor nods. He feels stranded by the door and takes a few steps into the room, hoping to seem as comfortable as Hank did.

“It seems to me like if you wanted me dead, you would’ve killed me already.” Hank scratch his chin, considering, gazing at the ceiling. “You’ve had plenty of opportunities, after all. And I know you don’t want my money, ‘cause you’ve got plenty of your own.”

Connor fidgets, then nods again.

“When I rule out those two factors, the only sense I can make of this is…” Hank lowers his gaze to Connor’s face—no, just beneath his face. Self-conscious, exposed, Connor reaches up to pull his shirt closer around his throat, which Hank has never seen without a tie. “The only sense I can make of it is that you’re telling the truth.”

A knot in Connor’s chest loosens. “I appreciate that, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” Hank gives him a half-smile; Connor doesn’t know what to make of it. “If I take what you’re saying to be the truth, it means you and I are going to be stuck together for a little while, kid.”

“I would say that is accurate, yes.”

Hank sticks out his chin, nodding. “All right. Fair enough. I want you to promise me one thing, since that’s the situation.”

“What is that?”

Hank raises himself from Connor’s bed and it creaks with the shifting weight. Hank takes a step toward Connor, a single step, but it nearly closes the entire distance between them, the total width of Connor’s little rented room. “Promise,” says Hank, a dark look in his eyes as he towers over Connor, “that you won’t hide anything from me. Not anymore.”

Connor meets Hank’s eye. It is—difficult. Hank has a skill for intimidation that’s exaggerated by his size, and when he gets close like this, it throws his scars into relief. He must’ve split his lip at some point, because there’s a white line of raised tissue on the bottom one. Connor’s head swims with the scent of bourbon. Hard to say if Hank is drunk, because he often smells of bourbon, even first thing in the morning.

Connor contrives an answer that neither absolves or commits him to the honesty Hank demands: “I will do my best.” He wants Hank to trust him, _needs_ Hank to trust him, but full disclosure is not always in his best interest, or in Hank’s.

Hank tongues the inside of his cheek and sighs. “You aren’t even gonna lie to me about it?”

“I don’t want to make any false promises, Lieutenant. That would be a violation of your trust.”

“False promises,” Hank grunts. “No, I wouldn’t want you to do that either.” His eyes slip down, back to the exposed skin of Connor’s neck, to the divot at the center of his clavicle. Connor is concerned Hank might see through the glamour that mimics human breathing, but—Hank already knows he’s dead. The artificial rise and fall of Connor’s chest might puzzle him more than the honest state of Connor’s body.

Connor attempts a smile. It is a forced expression and ultimately, he can tell, comes off more awkward than reassuring.

Hank smiles back, though there is something strange about that, too. The long-suffering twitch of sarcasm on his lips. “You came out here to find me.”

“Yes, to an extent. I pursued Kamski and intended to seek you out. It was serendipity that our paths crossed. You are necessary to my mission.”

Hank makes a deep, stirring noise in the base of his chest, and places his hand on the wall behind Connor to support himself. He bows his head.

“Are you well, Lieutenant?” asks Connor, feeling and sounding tiny.

“Are _you_ , Connor?” Hank lifts his head and—and glares. “Because, by your own admission, you’ve traveled halfway across a continent to find the only man on this side of the Earth who could end your immortal life.”

Connor swallows hard. He doesn’t speak, and Hank quickly grows frustrated. The smell of bourbon has intensified as he looms closer to Connor.

“Forget trusting _you_. Why the fuck do you trust _me_?”

“I have spent the past two decades cataloguing your behaviors and movements to the best of my ability.”

The crease in Hank’s brow goes slack. “What?”

Twenty years means little to Connor, in the grand scheme of his life. It might as well have been last week or a month ago that he picked up the paper one morning to read an article about Lieutenant Henry Anderson, the son of a famed fur trapper, Henry Senior. The article outlined the Lieutenant’s capture of the largest bear yet found in the Michigan territory, and featured a small etching of the bear, and another of Hank himself. Connor clipped the etching of Hank from the paper and pinned it to the wall of his study, above his desk. It is still hanging there, faded and yellowed by time. Niles had stopped teasing him about it after a while, but neither of them forgot it was there.

“I did my research before seeking you out,” says Connor, avoiding Hank’s eyes, which he can feel watching the movement of his lips. “I know that you were very nearly taken as a prisoner of war during the Siege of Detroit in 1812, and that you played an instrumental role in the American victory at Thames in 1813 under Major General Harrison. I know that in more recent years, you were married and had a son, and that both your wife and child succumbed to cholera.” Hank shifts his weight, but his expression doesn’t change. “I know the hat you wear belonged to your father, and I believe—I would surmise it is the only remaining physical memento of him you possess.”

Still blank-faced and unnervingly close to Connor, enough that his breath rustles Connor’s hair when he speaks, Hank asks, “And what’s your conclusion?”

“My conclusion is that you’re a good man who has seen trying times.” Connor shuts his eyes before he looks up, meeting Hank’s icy blue stare. “My conclusion is to trust you.”

“You don’t have a choice, do you? Like you said, you need me.”

He isn’t wrong. If Connor’s heart could still beat, it would be pounding in his chest. “I… I have made the decision to trust you regardless of its importance to my mission, Hank.”

Hank’s lips stretch into a smile. His eyes linger on Connor for what feels like—like longer than twenty years. They flicker over Connor’s features hungry, indecisive, and Connor wishes… that Hank would decide what it is he wants, so that Connor might give it to him.

Hank lifts his hand toward Connor; Connor stiffens, but it doesn’t deter Hank from touching him. Hank reaches for the open collar of Connor’s shirt and places a finger in the hollow of Connor’s clavicle. He traces the curve from collarbone to collarbone.

Connor remains frozen in place. He attempts to memorize the feeling of Hank’s fingers on his skin. It will be helpful for him, later.

“Were you always this perfect,” Hank mutters, his fingertip burning a U into Connor’s skin, “or is it a vampire thing?”

Connor’s pulse doesn’t race because he has no pulse, but he does feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hank laughs, low, gruff. “Of course you fuckin’ do.” His finger pauses its machinations. The smile slides off his face. Something happens behind his eyes that’s difficult to make out, but Connor thinks perhaps he can hear a click, see a realization snapping into place. Whatever it is, Hank seems… displeased.

He pushes himself off the wall and away from Connor, head bowed. “Fuck.”

“You ought to rest, Lieutenant,” says Connor. He is feeling—hm. He’d like to be alone with his thoughts. And the Lieutenant has had too much to drink. “Tomorrow we should resume our search for Kamski. He will try to leave Detroit soon.”

“Sure.” Hank turns away from Connor, toward the door. “Kamski. Right.”

“I will wake you tomorrow morning.”

“Great. Thanks.” Hank grips the doorknob.

“Sleep well, Lieutenant.”

Hank gets the door half open and stops to look back at Connor. His face has slipped into an intense frown. “You too, Connor. I suppose I’ve tired you out.”

Connor doesn’t know how to reply, and Hank is gone before he has the chance.

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

 

There is little detective work involved in finding out where Kamski went and what he did after escaping them. Connor comes downstairs after waking the Lieutenant and finds the door to the boarding house sitting open, and the front hall buzzing with frantic activity that spills outside. Connor can’t tell what’s going on amidst the commotion. He lights on North, who is staring out the open door, and surges toward her.

She sees him and pales.

“Ms. North, what’s happened?”

“I’m assuming this has to do with one of you,” she says. Connor follows her gaze out the door, to the front steps of the house, where… where there is a body.

“Did I miss breakfast?” comes Hank’s voice from the stairs. “Hell, what’s going on down here?” He reaches the bottom of the steps and Connor gestures out, at the—person. “Oh, fuck,” says Hank, still with the dregs of sleep in his voice.

North is doing well, considering the shock. “You boys take care of this. I told the sheriff there was a Marshall staying here—he’s outside.” She drags her eyes away from the body and marches back into her parlor.

Connor and Hank exchange a weary, wary glance. Hank leads the way out onto the porch.

The body lies facedown, strewn diagonally across the steps. Based on the clothing, Connor would guess the victim to be an older woman. What skin is visible has gone pallid and grey. There are two unmissable puncture wounds on the body’s neck.

Hank doesn’t hesitate to grab the corpse’s arm and roll it onto its back. There are passersby gathered in the street, watching them, murmuring to one another.

“Excuse me, why’re you touching that? Get away from there.”A man strides out of the crowd toward Hank, then stops short, taking in Hank’s coat and hat. He wears a glinting badge that identifies him as the Sheriff of Detroit. “Anderson?”

Hank straightens up, a hand on his back. “Sheriff Allen.”

Allen gives Connor a sour look. He only seems content speaking to Hank. “The woman said there was a Marshall here. Didn’t know she meant Hank Anderson.”

“I’m afraid you’ve stumbled into another one of my investigations.”

Connor kneels beside the body and begins an examination.

“Huh,” Allen says. “One of your… things, did this? How can you be sure?”

Connor pipes up: “This body was most certainly left here for the Lieutenant and I to find.”

“Sorry,” says Allen. “Who’re you?”

Hank turns to Connor, frowning, then sees the face. His lips part. “Shit. He’s right, Allen.”

Connor stands. He doesn’t need much more than the bite marks and the woman’s identity to determine what happened here, and even with her blood drained, the shopkeep from the tobacco store is recognizable. “Lieutenant,” says Connor. “I believe we are meant to interpret this as a threat.”

“Ya think?” Hank sighs. “Allen, you know how long she’s been here?”

“First report we got was around dawn. You know her?”

“Not her name, but she worked at the tobacco shop in Bates Street. You should take the body there.”

Allen nods, gives Connor a skeptical glance, and waves over his men. Connor and Hank step off the porch and starts to walk off—the crowd parts for him, staring—Connor dashes after.

“Where are we going, Lieutenant?”

Hank glowers at him, though Connor gets the sense he’s not upset upset with Connor but with… the situation. Hank has yet to encounter a dead human body in his search for Kamski. He’s not used to it. “The docks.”

“Why?”

“I thought—” Hank stops short. “Kamski drank that woman dry.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“He’s fed. He’ll be leaving Detroit for Philadelphia any moment now. If he dumped the body just before dawn, he’s already got a few hours on us.” Hank shakes his head. “We’re going to book passage on the next boat out of here and go kill that fucker.”

Connor takes a moment to process Hank’s being a step ahead of him. He is a third irritated, a third proud, and a third aroused at the Lieutenant’s forward-thinking resolve. “You’re correct,” he manages, keeping his voice light. “Though, why don’t we head back inside and pack our belongings so we can leave directly?”

Hank eyes the boarding house, where Allen and two other men are hoisting the dead woman off the steps. “I suppose we ought to tell North what’s happening.”

“That would be advisable.”

“Then let’s not drag our feet about it. We don’t have much time.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

“Leaving?” North echoes. “What, for good?”

“Yes,” says Connor.

“Nope,” says Hank. Connor glances sideways at him. “I’ll be back once I finish this job. You know I’ll never get out of this place for good.”

North smiles, genuinely reassured, and Connor can’t help feeling hollow at the thought of what will happen once this is all over. “Then I’ll say it was nice to meet you, Connor.”

“The same goes for you, Ms. North.”

“No one’s going to call me ‘Ms. North’ ever again, how strange,” she says, and gives Hank a peck on the cheek.

In a matter of hours, they are aboard a schooner sailing down the Detroit River, headed for Lake Erie. They’ll be in Cleveland by morning. From there, they’ll hire a coach to Philadelphia, a four-day journey. Connor loses track of Hank during the boarding process and goes looking for later, with the trip underway. They are sharing the trip with a load of lumber and Connor keeps picking wood chips from his coat.

He finds Hank on the bow of the ship. The breeze coming off the water must be frigid, because he has his arms folded across his chest. To Connor, who is always cold, it’s pleasant to feel the chilly temperature. Reminds him of being alive.

The sun begins setting to their right. It turns the sky orange-yellow-red. Hank stares blankly at the colors on the horizon.

“Lieutenant.”

Hank starts. “Connor.”

Connor steps beside Hank, looking with him. The sunlight doesn’t feel especially good on Connor’s skin, but it isn’t the midday sun, so it isn’t outright painful. “Thank you for accompanying me to Philadelphia.”

“It’s where Kamski is, so it’s where I’m going to go.” Hank heaves a sigh. “‘Cause you need me.”

“I appreciate your attention to my needs,” says Connor, just loud enough to be heard over the wind and water. “What are the sleeping arrangements aboard this vessel, by the way?”

“We won’t be sleeping.”

Connor turns to squint at him.

“What?” says Hank, gruff. “It’s not a passenger vessel. They don’t have quarters for anyone but the crew. They only took us along because the first mate owed me a favor.”

“I—I appreciate you pulling strings to make our journey possible. So you won’t sleep?”

“Nope.” Hank laughs, and puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder. Its weight dizzies Connor. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

 

 

 

###

 

 

 

The route from Cleveland to Philadelphia is popular enough that they have trouble getting two rooms at any inn along the way.

Connor himself does not sleep, in the human sense of the word. He _does_ enter into a meditative state for four to five hours each night, which is the same as sleep, in practice.

When Hank learns they’ll have to spend the first night on the road sharing a room, he becomes… unhappy. He marches out of the inn, into the yard, and Connor has to chase him. “I’ll sleep in the barn.”

“That is not necessary, Lieutenant.”

“You heard what the innkeeper said—there’s one bed in there. I’d rather sleep in the hay than on the floor.”

“I do not take up much room in a bed, and you are extremely tired!”

Hank wheels around. Connor reels back to avoid colliding with his chest. “I will not,” says Hank through his teeth, “share a bed with you.”

Connor bites his lip so he won’t smile, or worse, laugh. “Surely you kept close quarters with other men during your army days.”

“No offense, but you don’t remind me of any soldier I’ve known.”

Connor can’t help smiling at that. “Oh? What do I remind you of?”

Hank chokes on whatever it was he wanted to say next.

He turns around and storms toward the barn. Connor giggles into his hands, rearranges his face into a frown, and follows him.

“This’ll be—” Hank says, throwing open the barn doors. The rest of his words are stifled by a human-sized furry projectile slamming into him.

“Lieutenant!” Connor breaks into a run. “There’s a dog on top of you!”

“Fuck, I’m aware!” Hank is pinned to the ground under the weight of the animal, which… has begun to lick his face. Connor slows to a jog. He’s laughing again. “I didn’t know they made dogs this big, Jesus Christ.”

As soon as Connor approaches, the dog bounds off Hank and toward him. Perhaps he can sense that he should _not_ pin Connor to the ground similarly, but he does eagerly accept petting, and slobbers on Connor’s coat. He’s brown and white, with floppy ears and floppier jowls.

Hank clambers to his feet, groaning. Immortal he might be, but the pain is clear in his face. “That… hurt.”

“It would be wise for you to sleep in a bed, what with the state of your back,” says Connor innocently, continuing to smile and pet the enormous dog.

Hank glares at him, a hand on his bruised hip. He eyes the barn, and then the sky overhead—grey and angry, threatening snow. “Fuck. Fine.”

Connor grins into the drooling face of his new best friend. “I didn’t presume convincing you to share my bed would be this difficult, Lieutenant.”

The dismay on Hank’s face is… satisfactory. “Of all the moments for you to develop a sense of humor.” He marches past Connor, back toward the inn. “Don’t forget that I could kill you.”

Connor’s grin fades with Hank’s footsteps, his fingers stroking the fur between the dog’s sympathetic eyes. “And I you, Hank.”


End file.
